The Kingmaker (All the King's Men, #1)(5)

We cooked our haul over an open fire that night. I silently complete the memory, still tasting the fish and the laughter, the camaraderie that came so easily then.

“And remember that week we broke in Thunder?” he asks.

“That horse was half Arabian, half demon,” I recall with a short bark of laughter.

“He was no match for us, though. Between you and me, we broke him in.”

An image sears my mind. Thunder, with rolling eyes and a bucking back, his neighing a battle cry. We took turns, Dad and I, that week on our Montana ranch, riding the horse, bridling him, training and taming him until my father could lead him around a fenced circle by a rope, the horse’s spirit as subdued as his light trot.

Docile. Broken.

And that’s how my father wants me. Trotting obediently, my neck draped with the reins of his power.

“That horse was no match for the two of us. We can do anything together,” Dad continues. “Come run Cade Energy with me, Max.”

I almost fell for it. When his money doesn’t work, he employs his only other weapon: my love for him. He dangles his affection, his approval before me like ripe, low-hanging fruit. Just bite. A tempting trade. My will for his. Do what he says. Be who he wants and he’ll love me that way again. But I’ve seen too much—changed too much. Our eyes, hair, bones, and our very natures may be the same, but I’ve spent years venturing beyond the safety of my father’s borders, and it has fleshed me out. It’s made a man of me, and the man I want to be is not my father.

I don’t respond, but keep my gaze fixed through the tinted glass. I’m still formulating a response that won’t cause a backseat battle when we pull up to the construction site.

A few hundred people crowd the plot of desert. Bulldozers and trucks loiter, impotent and silent, each with a dark-haired protester anchored to it. Their arms hook around the necks of the bulldozers, a cast plastering both arms in an unbroken loop. Some are chained to the trucks, impeding any forward movement. Protesters raise signs and link arms to form a line of bodies around the site. Media trucks topped with satellite dishes dot the scene, and well-groomed reporters stand nearby armed with their microphones. Police officers ring the area, sober sentinels with expressionless faces. I can’t tell if they’re here to protect or threaten. I guess it depends whose side you’re on.

“Dammit to hell,” my father mutters. “I need those trucks moving.”

A vaguely familiar man approaches the Escalade, irritation and anxiety twisting his expression. He stands outside the door, obviously waiting for my father to get out. Dad rolls the window down halfway, not bothering to so much as lean forward. Anger strikes out on the man’s face like a snake’s forked tongue before he gains control of it and steps closer to the window, his features falsely placid. He looks deferential for a man who barely deigns to acknowledge him.

“Mr. Cade,” he says, leaning close enough to the window to be heard.

“Beaumont,” Dad responds, his use of the man’s name jogging my memory. He’s a division leader I met at one of the company picnics held at our Dallas compound. “You said you had this situation under control. I’d hate to see what you consider a disaster.”

Beaumont clears his throat and loosens his collar before speaking. “It was under control, sir,” he says. “We were on schedule. I caught wind of this planned protest yesterday, and contacted the office as soon as I heard. I thought they’d send someone. I didn’t expect you to come personally.”

“I am someone,” Dad snaps, “keeping you on your toes. I needed to see this shit storm for myself. Who are all these people?”

“Mostly people from the reservation,” Beaumont says. “But some students from local universities showed up, too. As you can see, some have chained themselves to the construction equipment. Some just arrived from the run.”

“What run?” I ask from the shadowy corner on the other side of the back seat.

Beaumont’s eyes flick in my direction, narrowing before returning to my father’s face.

“Uh, sir,” he starts, his tone cautious, his expression closing off even more. “We can talk later or—”

“It’s all right,” my father says impatiently. “You can speak freely in front of him. It’s my boy Maxim.”

“Oh, yes.” Beaumont relaxes and inclines his head to me like I’m some kind of prince and my father his liege. “Good to see you again, Maxim. How’s Berkeley treating you?”

“The run?” I ignore the pleasantry and press for the information I requested. “What kind of run?”

“Yes, well, some of them call themselves water protectors,” Beaumont answers. “They raise awareness through these marathons. They finished one today.”

I nod toward the media trucks. “Seems like they raised some awareness about this pipeline.”

“It’s a small story in the big scheme of things,” Beaumont insists. “Some old Indians and a bunch of kids from the reservation, worried about something that’s not likely to ever happen.”

“You mean a spill?” I demand. “They’re worried their main source of water will be polluted? Is that what you mean?”

Beaumont glances from my scowling face to my father’s. The look he gives my dad says it all without him uttering a word. Whose side is your son on anyway?